The Queens of Merab: The Journey
He waved to indicate the stone walls. Darmon seemed to have confirmed Zevan's claim, as he nodded to Pelagia, who allowed Temair to enter the room. Darmon gave a pointed, less than friendly smile to the servant, who reluctantly preceded him out of the chamber. Temair shut the door firmly behind the three men, leaving herself and Zevan completely alone. The Aire Lord was sitting at a small desk that took up about a third of the small chamber.
The look on the boy's no, the man'sface nearly broke her heart. As did the bruise blooming under his left eye. She'd believed Miach and Dathan, of course, when they'd told her of Lady Alta's abuse, but somehow seeing it made it real. Zevan's gaze had flown to hers, and his posture straightened a bit at the words, and it occurred to her that he'd never been addressed by his title. Her heart squeezed a little harder.
Zevan turned away, and she thought she heard him choke back a laugh. She cast her eye around the chamber with a frown. The room was much smaller than the guest room she and her Consorts shared, and very plain. Certainly not befitting a son of the Aerie. But she was willing to bet Nabal's chamber was pure luxury.
A bit of leather poking out from under a pillow caught her attention, and she leaned across the bed to tug out the history book she'd given Zevan to read. When she glanced up, his eyes were tracing the line of her body with a very grown up interest, so she hid a smile and took her time sitting up, twisting so her dress pulled snugly over her breasts. In Turnin and Zirah. Zevan was shaking his head.
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Because, it sounded an awful lot like she was implying he would be a good choice for Consort. Which was ridiculous. Zevan hurried on before she could interrupt. I am not even allowed to be present during citizen petitions! He hadn't realized, until he started to verbalize it, how very much had been denied him. She knelt between his spread legs, laying her palms gently on his thighs. Instead she turned her palms against his and brought his hands to her heart.
The tender gesture stung his eyes, even as the soft heat of her flesh made him catch his breath. Have you forgotten that the man who wrote The Art and Grace of Warfare was a military genius in truth?
Nuriel's Cougar (Queens of Merab 2, #2)
She followed the movement, standing tall on her knees and leaning into his body. The princess pulled back and surprised him with a warm, self-deprecating laugh. Look at my face. I'm not a great beauty like Nuriel, or even striking like Sorcha. What could a man like Miach or Dathan want with me, other than my crown? Chapter Five He was so precious, Temair thought.
All aching vulnerability and glistening silver eyes. She could feel so much in him, passion waiting to explode, held in check by the iron-hard control that had most likely kept him alive and in one piece. He seemed almost frozen before her, afraid to move, to break the spell she was weaving around them. So, she moved for him, leaning in to press her lip oh-so-gently against his.
His breath caught, and she pressed closer, breasts crushed against his hard, wiry chest, lips pushing his open. When she slipped her tongue out to slide along the full curve of his lower lip, he relaxed, breathing a ragged sigh into her mouth and sagging back into his chair. Temair smiled into the kiss and followed him, wriggling up into his lap and cupping his cheeks firmly, holding him in place for her eager mouth. He tasted sweet, cool and clean like the breeze off the top of a mountain in springtime.
She couldn't stop sipping at him, top lip, and bottom lip. A tug with sharp teeth, and he moaned into her mouth.
His cock dug into her hip through the heavy quilted material of his breeches and the thick wool of her skirt, and Temair wanted to see it, to touch skin to skin. Even more, though, she wanted to show him how beautiful it was to her, how beautiful he was to her. Her wounded bird.
How high could he soar once he'd healed? His hands rose, fingers winding in the coils of hair pinned at her nape, and he dragged her mouth to his. He gave her his lips, his tongue. He gave her his breath, and she'd swear he even gave her his soul in his kiss.
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He'd been paying attention, because he did it exactly right. The perfect amount of teeth, the perfect combination of hot and wet and slick, and Temair felt the familiar wet and slick start lower, welling up inside her like a heated tidal wave. Diving deeper into his kiss, she wriggled in his lap, yanking impatiently at her voluminous skirts until they bunched around her hips, freeing her to straddle him, knees wedged between his hips and the arms of the chair. Zevan wasn't a particularly big man; he lacked the long, rangy builds that made Miach and Dathan so imposing. However, it would be a mistake, she realized, to think he was weak.
The thighs pressed against her calves were hard with ropey muscles. The chest she was pressed against was rock hard. There was strength in his elegant, scholar's hands as they twined deeper into her hair. Deceptively delicate, that was her Aire Lord. Finally, they fell apart, each gasping for aire.
Temair was light-headed, giddy from the kiss. Zevan's hands slowly left her hair, fingers trailing gently through the rumpled strands with something like wonder. Temair returned the caress, She liked the odd coloration, the way the snowy tips contrasted with the deep, charcoal tone at the roots.
He'd be so very easy to love. I don't know why you'd want me, but," he gulped, breath ragged, tearing at his words, "I'm yours. She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek, turning her head to press her lips into his palm. Zevan looked ready to shatter, and the elements knew she was close to tears herself. It was time to change the mood. Sinking her teeth lightly into the heel of his hand and pressing down hard against the instinctive rise of his hips at the sensation, she smiled into his hematite-colored eyes.
It was slow work, unlacing the heavy quilted bodice of her dress. But she didn't resent the time like she normally would, because Zevan's eyes traced every movement with an intensity that reminded her of Miach's whips of fyre. By the time her dress landed on the floor with a heavy whump of fabric, her nipples were pressing urgently against her chemise, her nether curls glistening through the transparent fabric with the moisture of her excitement. Offering her hands, she tugged him from his chair, giving a little jerk at the end so he ended up pressed hard against her.
The Queens of Merab 2: Nuriel's Wolf
He was only a few inches taller than she, which made it marvelously easy to go on tiptoe and catch his lips with her own. He kissed her back readily, eagerly, hands unconsciously urgent on her back and hips. His skin was silky smooth, but his fingers were hard, demanding on the vulnerable dip of her spine. Keeping him distracted with her tongue in his mouth was easy. It was a bit more complicated working loose the fastenings of his quilted vest, but finally the last cord gave way, and she was shoving the cursed thing down his arms.
He tensed a little when she turned her attention to the laces of his breeches, but Temair nestled her face in the curve of his neck and breathed slow, wet kisses along the slightly rough skin there. He might look like a boy, she thought with a Finally he was accessible to her, soft cotton shirt and rough wool breeches open and waiting to be peeled free. Still licking at his neck, teasing the soft spot behind his ear with the tip of her tongue, Temair spread her hands wide on his shoulders and dragged them downward, stroking every bit of silk-over-steel muscle she could reach.
When she reached his nipples, she stopped with a low sound of surprise. Each deep rose disk was pierced with a heavy iron barbell. Her eyes flew to his, but he refused to meet her gaze. Streaks of angry color marked his cheeks, and his jaw twitched.
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But they're ugly. He shivered lightly at her delicate touch, and his cock bucked against her lower belly through her chemise and his open breeches. Encouraged, she tugged at the barbells, smiling slowly at his hiss of sensation. Dipping her head, she licked daintily around each metal bar, and grinned when his hands clenched hard on her waist. With each light flick of her tongue, Temair was drawing the cord of his control tighter; each puff of breath ripped over his nerves like a tornado.
He'd frozen when she'd discovered the posts through his nipples. They symbolized an ugly time in his life, and whenever he caught sight of them, his stomach churned with a combination of pain and helpless rage. Somehow, though, with her tender heart and sinful mouth, Temair had stolen the brutality of the memory.
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Had erased the event from his mind. When she caught one metal post between sharp white teeth and tugged, the pull arrowed straight to his cock. How was it possible, he wondered, for one person in one moment to undo years of pain with one touch? His breath was hitching embarrassingly when she wrapped her fingers in the loosened waist of his breeches and pulled them firmly down.
She dropped to her knees at his feet, and the sight washed over him like a tidal wave; Temair, on her knees, hands working busily to free him of his half-boots and breeches. He had a bad moment when she freed his cock and discovered the final evidence of his mother's torture.